


Out of the Nest

by Fanforthefics (StormDancer)



Series: Hockey Tumblr Oneshots [24]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-26 16:09:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16684825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/Fanforthefics
Summary: Geno thinks about standing on his own. Thinks about eight years in a locker room with a man he’s in love with and can’t have. Thinks about what might happen, if that love turns to resentment.And he says no.





	Out of the Nest

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: a kiss...out of adrenaline
> 
> Don't know, don't own, etc

Geno thinks about it for the first time after their first Cup win. 

It’s the wrong place to think about it, maybe–they’re all high on everything, haven’t been sober in days, and Geno’s happier than maybe he’s ever been. This is what he came here to do, why he hid in that Finland bathroom, why he ran to a country without knowing the language or anything more than hockey–this. To hold the Cup. 

And then he looks at Sid, incandescent with his happiness as Flower tilts beer from the Cup into his mouth, boyish and handsome and Sid licks some beer from his mouth, tongue pink, and–something shifts in Geno, something irrevocable. A knowledge that can’t be changed or moved, as he looks at Sid. 

Oh, Geno thinks then, for the first but not the last time. What will it be like, to have Sid next to him, but only in some of the ways Geno wants? 

It doesn’t matter then. It’s just a thing Geno thinks about, usually when Sid’s either being particularly annoying or particularly cute. When either he chafes, passed over again and again for Sid’s brighter flame, or when Sid does something that makes him ache for wanting, drawn in always to that flame. 

It’s easier, in some guilty parts of Geno, during the concussion. When it’s–not Geno’s team, because the Penguins are Sid’s team to their bones, and Geno will fight tooth and nail to make sure that stays true, but Geno’s the one holding them in trust. Geno’s the one leading them for now, the one the camera’s on. The one people are talking about. It’s–Geno hadn’t thought he wanted that, not really. But it makes him think. 

And–and Sid’s not there all the time, on the ice and in the locker room and on the bus, yakking on and smiling so fondly and dragging Geno into watching game tape and listening to every single call up who sets foot in the locker room, to every fan, and just being so Sidney that Geno’s fists sometimes clench to keep from just–being reckless. Geno still goes to see SId, of course, but it’s not all the time. Not the constant reminder of what he can’t have. 

And then–then Geno gets back from Russia, where he learned what it meant to be Captain, to have a team that was his, and Sid’s there, in the locker room Geno’s first day back, and he yanks Geno into a hug, and Geno can feel his smile on his neck. Geno leans into Sid’s embrace, holding him tight so he can have this much, and he thinks it again, for real. 

So that summer, when his agent comes to him, asking about the contract extension–Geno thinks about what it felt like, to have his own team. Thinks about standing on his own. Thinks about eight years in a locker room with a man he’s in love with and can’t have. Thinks about what might happen, if that love turns to resentment. 

And he says no. 

* * *

Sid doesn’t talk to him for two months, once the Pens trade him. 

Geno’s not surprised, exactly. Geno hadn’t told him for exactly this reason–because he’d wanted as long as he could have with Sid unsullied, Sid’s offseason texts about everything from the fish he’d caught to pictures of his dog to thoughts about the penalty kill. Sid’s ridiculously awkward selfies, and the way he sucked at emoji responses to Geno’s pictures. But Geno does not have any illusions about Sidney Crosby. He knew what to expect. 

Still, Geno had expected a few weeks, maybe. Everyone knows Sid sulks. Geno’s been sulked at, more than once. Oh, Sid says all the right things to the media– “For sure, I’m sad to see Geno go, but he’s going to make a huge splash in Dallas. I can’t wait to see what he does–as long as it’s not beat us,” and shit like that. But the chatty texts cut off on a dime a few days before Geno heard about the trade, and Geno knows what that meant. 

He gives Sid a few weeks, but then he starts to get annoyed. What, did Sid expect him to stay in his shadow for the rest of his career? To always be in second place? Sid wasn’t usually selfish, but that was. 

But he texts Sid a few times, angrily, and gets nothing back; and then he goes to Dallas. 

It’s–he’s been to Dallas before, he’s played there, but it’s still different. There’s so much more space here, and it’s warm, and there’s none of the steel that seems to run through Pittsburgh’s bones. Instead there’s oil and cows and it all feels newer, somehow. 

The guys are good, though–training camp is what it is, as usual, and if none of them are the Pens–none of them are  _Sid_ –it’s still good. They’re a good group, and clearly ready to make something of themselves. And Gonch is there, which, as always, makes it easier. Still, it’s…weird. Different locker room, different traditions. The way some of the guys look at him, like he knows the answers–he’s used to being a vet on the team now, to wearing a letter, but it’s different, here. Where’s he’s expected to change things. 

“You’ll get us there,” Benn–Jamie, not Jordie tells him, a little drunk and big-eyed. Geno had been worried about him; rumor was he was going to be captain before Geno came, but he’s been nothing but solid. A good kid, Geno thinks, though he isn’t that much older, solid and dependable and the sort to care more about his team than scoring–the kind of person, Geno thinks despite himself, who Sid would like. 

He stops thinking that. He’s been trying not to think about Sid as much. It hasn’t worked–he still looks to him on the power play, still looks at his phone and wonders how the Pens camp is doing, who’s wearing the A in his stead, if Sid is spending long evenings with whoever that is–but he’s trying. He came to Dallas for a fresh start. He’s going to get it. 

“Right, Geno?” Jamie asks, and Geno blinks. 

“Hm?” 

“The playoffs,” Jamie tells him, eyes big and bright and yearning. “Right? This year’s our year.” 

“Yes, our year,” Geno agrees, though he’s maybe not sure, and toasts Jamie. 

* * *

They play the Pens early in the season. Geno doesn’t have time to nod to some of the guys before they get on the ice, but then–then he’s across a faceoff dot from Sid, and in some ways it’s like practice almost every day for years, the two of them. And in some ways–Sid would always be smiling then. Now he’s set, his game face on, the one that means nothing’s going to throw him out. 

“Guess we finally see who better,” Geno throws at him, right before the puck drops–just to break him. To see him feel something, god. 

It’s a miscalculation. Geno knows it the moment he sees Sid set his jaw at that, the way it lights a fire in his eyes. Sid wins the faceoff, and then he’s down the ice. 

Dallas loses. No one’s surprised, really–the Stars are still rebuilding, and the bones are there, but they aren’t quite there yet. Sid’s on fire the way he always is after someone challenged him, but Geno gets a goal and an assist too, sneaking it around Flower in a way that gets him sworn at in French. In the end it’s not that weird–Geno’s played long enough that he’s played against people he considers friends. A whole team of them is a little different, but. It is what it is. 

They get off the ice clearly bummed but not distraught, and head to the locker room, where Geno has infinite media about what it feels like to play against his old team, against Sid. “Is always fun to play Sid,” Geno tells them. “He win this time, but maybe not next.” He doesn’t think it’s fitting, here and now, to say what he’s always said–that Sid’s the best player in the world, and there’s nothing Geno’s loved more than keeping up. 

“Yeah, sure,” Demers puts in, when the media’s done. “You say it’s fun. Tell me that when you can check him.” 

“What that mean?” Geno asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Demers looks at Jamie, who shrugs. “Um, you just. Don’t check him very hard,” he says. Geno’s been getting shit about this for years, he knows how the handle it–it’s not like, maybe, in his heart of hearts, it might not be true. 

Anyway, “Think I have enough checking,” he says, because he was definitely not imagining how hard Tanger was gunning for him. He’s more than a little pissed about that, actually; they’re supposed to be friends. 

He gets changed quickly, then goes to the visitor’s locker room, to say hi to the people who are still his friends. 

What he’s not expecting, when he opens the door, is to be met with a glaring Sidney surrounded by a cadre of French Canadians–one smiling (Flower), one glaring (Tanger) and one looking vaguely exasperated (Duper). “Yes, hi Geno, good game,” Flower says in a rush. “Now, take him. Fix him.” He shoves Sid out of the door. 

Sid must not have been expecting it, because he stumbles, and Flower’s slammed the door shut before he can catch it. 

“Asshole!” Sid mutters. Geno raises his eyebrows. 

“Is so bad, talk to me?” he asks. 

Sid lifts his head, and–god, it’s still…He’s still so Sid, even with his media face on, all eyes and lips and cheekbones and a ridiculous sort of beard. “You want to talk?” he asks, coolly. 

They aren’t going to do this here. “Come,” Geno says, and ushers them to a nearby office. Sid goes like a cat might–making it clear he’s only going because it’s his idea. Then Geno closes the door and leans against it. 

Sid stands in the middle of the room, his media face still on. Geno thinks he’s going to have to talk first–Geno tends to be more impatient than Sid, and he has plenty to say–but then Sid tilts his chin up just a little. 

“If you weren’t happy with the way the team was going, you could have talked to me,” he starts, stiff, formal. “Or to Kuni. I know we haven’t won in a few years, but–” 

“Not about winning,” Geno snaps at him. Does Sid think so little of him? And if he really cared this much about winning, would he really have gone to Dallas? 

Sid swallows. “Well. If you were having problems with anyone on the team–” 

“Sid, you know I’m not.” 

“Then if you were dissatisfied with my leadership, we could have discussed–” 

“Of course not!” Geno interrupts. God, he wants to just–shake Sid. For being so  _Sid_. 

“Or with your minutes, we could have–” 

“Not about how long I play–” 

“Then what the fuck?” Sid snaps back, his cheeks flushed, and Geno can breathe again. This is Sid, his Sid–not the media version, the Sid who was easygoing until he wasn’t and who would fight with Geno for hours about stupid shit and who, Geno was beginning to realize, he would never not love. “If it wasn’t any of that, why did you want to leave?” 

“You really think I’m want to play behind you forever?” Geno demands, incredulous. Does Sid not get it? “Always be–Sidney Crosby, and also Evgeni Malkin. All fame on you.” 

“That’s all–media bullshit!” Sid retorts. “You’re the best player out there and you know it, why does it matter what they say?” 

“Easy for you to say!” Geno yells, and pushes away the part of him that always thrills to have Sid praise him like that, like it’s obvious. “Maybe I’m want someone, sometime, to say, oh yes, Geno Malkin, he great too!” 

“You never cared before!” Sid’s hands are clenched into fists. “You–you always said you didn’t care about that, you just wanted to play, for us to play together.” He takes a breath, and Geno can see it, beneath the anger–the hurt. The confusion. Fuck, he hates that. Wants, instinctively, to do whatever he has to to fix it. “Was that a lie?” Sid asks, half accusing, half–something else. “Were you always going to leave m–us?” 

“Not a lie! I’m think I stay, but my contract up, and–” What’s Geno supposed to say? But I realized I couldn’t stay forever and be in love with you and watch you never know? “And I’m think things over, and decide,” he finishes. 

“You could have talked to me about it,” Sid informs him snippily, but he’s winding down. Sid can keep a grudge forever, but he doesn’t seem to want to keep this one. “I–Mario told me, and I told him he was lying, because you’d have told me if you were thinking about going somewhere else.”  

Geno winces. “I’m…I can’t say, not to you.” 

“Why not?” Sid asks, honestly confused, and Geno–it’s another thing Geno can’t say, that Sid would have talked him into staying, because Sid could probably talk him into anything short of throwing a game if he smiled at him, if he asked. “I thought–I mean, weren’t we–aren’t we–friends?” 

“Yes, of course,” Geno says, too fast. They’re friends before anything. “Yes, but. Have to make choice on my own.” 

“But why?” Sid demands again, because he’s like a dog with a bone, and then there’s a knock on the door and it pulls open to reveal Tanger and Kuni there, looking, if Geno knows them right, like Tanger was going to burst in and Kuni was holding him back a little. 

“Bus is leaving, Sid,” Kuni says. Tanger’s mostly growling at Geno. “You ready?” 

“Yeah, for sure. I’ll just–” Sid waves a hand, like that means anything. “It was–good seeing you, Geno.” He pauses, then something like a smile cracks over his face, bright and like a knife into Geno’s heart. “Better beating you.” 

“Not next time!” Geno throws back, as Sid leaves. Kuni nods to Geno and heads out, but Geno grabs Tanger’s arm before he can go. 

“What wrong with you?” He demands. “You mad I’m trade too?” 

Tanger throws off Geno’s arm with the sort of look in his eyes he gets before a fight on the ice. “I get not wanting to be in Sid’s shadow,” he shoots back, his accent thick enough that it takes all of Geno’s concentration to understand the English. “But you didn’t have to be cruel about it. Not to Sid.” 

“What? I’m not–” 

Tanger shoves him out of his way–hard enough that Geno might have pushed back, if he’d been expecting it. “He’d just gotten back, and now he’s been fucking miserable and it’s your fault,” he snaps, and then he’s stalking out of the room before Geno can follow him, if Geno even had an idea of what to say. 

* * *

They don’t talk again for two weeks, and even then, it’s because Geno’s been complaining to Gonch about the lingering weirdness in the room–he knows what it feels like when a team is 100% behind their captain, and it’s not Dallas, not right now. He just can’t get it there–there’s no real problem in the room, it’s not that, it’s just not what he knows it can be. What it should be. 

“I’ve worn a letter for years,” he tells Gonch on a groan. “I should know how to do this.” 

Gonch just raises his eyebrows at him. “You wore an A,” he says. “It’s different.” 

“Are you saying I don’t know how to lead?” Geno demands. He knows how to fucking lead, that’s not the problem. 

“I’m saying,” Gonch says, in the tone that means his patience is wearing thin, “That you’ve always had Sid’s authority as a crutch, and you’ve never had to do it on your own. And that I’m not the person I should be asking about this.” 

Geno glares, but–he has a point. And, guiltily, maybe Geno’s been waiting for this–for a good reason to talk to Sid. To hear his voice again. 

So he calls, that night, when he knows Sid will be eating dinner. “Hello?” Sid answers, sounding wary. 

“Hi, Sid.” he says. “Good time?” 

“Yeah.” He hears movement, like Sid’s getting up. “How are things?” 

Geno is not equipped to do small talk in English over the phone. “Sid,” He whines, and Sid snorts. Geno grins to himself, smug. 

“You called me,” Sid points out. More noise–is he sitting down? Geno can picture him, sitting in his living room, probably in his old sweats and one of his t-shirts that are far too small on him now in ways that made it hard for Geno to look at him, sometimes. “What’s up?” 

Sid’s being aggressively normal, so Geno is too. “I’m…want advice,” he admits. He can almost hear Sid’s smugness down the line. “Shut up.” 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“Yes, you think, very loud.” 

“What do you need advice on?” Sid asks, instead of replying to that. “If it’s your defense, I can’t–” 

Geno doesn’t like asking for help, but it’s Sid. If there’s anyone other than his mom he can ask…He takes a breath. “I’m–how you make sure you win room?” he asks. “I’m…it’s not there. Don’t know how to get it, to where we–where Pens are. With you.” 

“You’ll get there. it’s only been a few months.” 

Geno rolls his eyes at the floor. “Is not the same. You know–everyone on Pens ready to kill for you, if you say.” 

“That’s not–” 

“We all ready,” Geno interrupts him. He doesn’t want to deal with Sid’s humility, not right now. “How you get there?” 

Sid sucks in a breath, then pauses for long enough that Geno prompts him, “Sid?” 

“Yeah, sorry. I’m thinking.” There’s a weird note to his voice. “Some of it really is time. It wasn’t like this, in the beginning.” 

“Sid.” 

Sid chuckles, probably at Geno’s tone. “Yeah, fine. So I think what works best is to make sure you make it personal with everyone–they need to know you, trust you even if they don’t like you–” 

Once he gets started, of course, Geno’s stuck there forever, because Sid on a roll can’t be stopped. but it’s–maybe this was a bad idea, because Geno had known Sid was a good leader but he hadn’t really conceived of how much thought Sid put into it, and it’s just a lot, and it’s not helping Geno’s plan of moving on. 

It also–and this part is a little annoying, in a general ‘Sid shouldn’t be good at everything’ sort of way–works. Geno can sense it, can see the room coming together. Can see the thing they could build. 

And it breaks the seal, too. Sid starts texting him again, little things that Geno encourages by sending pictures back. It’s not helping him move on, but it’s not like he could ever not want to have Sid in his life, not really. And he thinks he could survive like this, with his team and Sid on his phone, far enough away that the yearning isn’t omnipresent. 

Then–there’s Sochi. 

* * *

The less said about Sochi, the better.

* * *

Jamie comes back covered in glory, grinning and showing his medal around. Geno comes back glowering, and unable to put a fucking puck in the net. 

* * *

Geno’s storming around his house one day after practice, unable to sit still and unable to work out either. What’s the point? He’s just–he couldn’t win for Russia, couldn’t do his job, how is he supposed to here? 

The doorbell rings. He strongly considers just letting it ring–who could be here? Who could want to see him? –but then it rings again, and he goes to the door, to yell at whoever’s there if nothing else. 

He’s not expecting Sid. But Sid is what he gets, standing on his doorstep in a baseball cap, looking like he’d just wandered over for a beer like he’d do in Pittsburgh. “Sid?” Geno asks, his throat dry. 

“Hey, can I come in?” 

Geno steps aside. Sid comes in, looking around the house curiously as Geno leads the way to the living room. 

“You still have those? I thought you’d ditch them,” he says, nodding to his statues. 

“Why I get rid?” Geno asks, sitting down on the couch. “Are best statues.” 

“They’re awful.” 

“You awful,” Geno retorts, then. “Sid, what are you doing here?” 

Sid just looks at him, long and hard. He’s taken a seat on the couch next to Geno, and he’s so–solid and handsome and Geno remembers seeing him with the gold medal in his hand, alight like he was the sun. “We’re playing tomorrow,” he says, slowly. Like Geno should have remembered. Which maybe he should have, but what would it matter. He wasn’t going to be of use anyway. “Jamie asked me to come by.” Geno snorts. “He’s worried,” Sid adds. 

“Why? He finally get team, like he want first.” 

“Geno,” Sid tells him, scolding. Geno scowls. maybe it’s unfair, but he thinks he gets to be. “He’s worried. So is Gonch. So am I.” 

“Why? I play like shit, you win.” 

“I don’t want to win if you’re like this,” Sid retorts. “I want to beat you at your best.” Geno almost smiles, despite himself. 

But then– “I fuck up, Sid,” he mutters, looking down at his hands. “In Sochi. It—” 

“Yeah, you didn’t win,” Sid agrees, matter of fact. “You didn’t win a lot of times. What’s different about this time?” 

“I don’t know!” Geno’s getting louder, he can’t help it. Does Sid think he’s doing this on purpose? “I just–it not working. We losing again, and I’m not help, and–” 

“You wanted a team,” Sid interrupts. He’s leaning over, elbows braced on his knees; he’s looking at Geno like what he’s saying is obvious, like Geno should know it. Should be able to do it. Can do it. “This is what it means to be captain. It doesn’t matter how you’re feeling. You’re a leader.” His chin lifts up, and Geno thinks of–of Sid at the worst of the concussion, when he’d drag himself to the rink to watch. When he clearly wanted to play more than anything, and still fist bumped everyone on their way out. Every time they lost and Sid stood in front of the media, the team, Geno, and told them what they had to hear, before he went home and dealt with it himself. “So lead.” 

* * *

They win. A part of Geno feels a little bad about it, because Sid helped more than a little, but more of him is just–he got a goal, and more than that, he played well. It was good. 

He’s still riding on that when he goes to the guest locker room. Tanger glares at him less this time, when he comes in; or only the grumpy post-loss glare. Geno takes it as a good sign. 

Sid’s still getting changed, buttoning up his shirt as he talks to Duper, and he’s got his face on like he’s talking over the game and Geno thinks of how he’d lookeed over the faceoff dot today when Geno had won the faceoff, and how he looks now, and how he looked last night telling Geno exactly what he needed to hear, and he  _won_ , finally, again, and–

“I’m steal,” he announces to Duper, and tugs Sid away. 

“Fuck off, what?” Sid demands, clearly pissy from the loss. “G, I–” 

Geno opens the nearest door he can find, herds Sid in, closes the door, and kisses him. 

It clearly takes Sid entirely by surprise. It takes Geno a little by surprise, the recklessness joy of it. Sid goes still beneath Geno, and Geno probably should be worried but he can’t be, right now. Instead, he pulls back, beaming. He won, and now he knows what Sid’s lips felt like, and Sid hasn’t punched him. He’s doing well. 

“What?” Sid asks. His hand come up to touch his lips. 

“I’m win,” Geno tells him, feeling smug. 

“Yeah, I know.” Sid’s cute when he’s sulky, Geno’s always thought. “But, G–what was that?” 

Geno is happy, and he’s been holding this in so long, and–Sid’s looking at him with his big eyes and touching his lips and looks confused, not mad. “I’m not tell you about contract because you talk me out of it,” he says. “I’m know that if you ask me to stay, I stay, and I can’t stay, not with how much I want you.” 

“G–” 

“Because I’m want you, so much, for so long, and I know if I stay, I say something, or I start to–or it turns bad, because I’m jealous, or because I’m think I only stay for you, and so I’m go, and–” 

“G–” 

“And I’m happy here,” Geno keeps going. He should have known he wasn’t going to stop once he started. “But, if I’m think I move to get over you, it not working, and you–” 

“Geno,” Sid interrupts, just enough of the captain in his voice that, instinctively, Geno shuts up. Sid blinks at him again, still tracing his lips with his fingers. Lips Geno has kissed. Geno has to resist the urge to touch his own lips, to remember. “I didn’t–I didn’t know. I didn’t think.” 

“I know.” Geno does. “I–” 

“Shut up,” Sid cuts him off again. “I didn’t think, but–I never thought I was going to play without you. And then you weren’t there, and I had to learn…” He shakes his head, but there’s a light in his eyes Geno knows. That’s Sid making a play, that’s Sid before he does something insane and wonderful and scores. “Maybe I couldn’t have let myself think about that,” Sid goes on, thoughtful, “Not when–I was your captain, it wouldn’t have been okay.” 

Like Sid would have ever tried to pull rank on him. But Geno has spent years knowing Sid’s play, and going with it, and now is not the time to scoff at that. “You not my captain now,” he points out. 

“No,” Sid agrees, and he still doesn’t look happy to say it, but he doesn’t just look sulky either, as he takes a step forward. Closer to Geno. “I’m not.” 

Geno looks at him, smiling up at Geno, and it’s–it’s like that first time, that Cup win sparkling through their veins. That first time he fell in love with Sid. 

It’s probably stupid. They live halfway across a country from each other; their schedules will never match up; they’re going to have to play against each other. But–maybe Geno doesn’t need Sid. But he wants him. And they might not be on the same team anymore, but together they’ll always be unstoppable. 

“Going to kiss you again,” Geno warns, and Sid rolls his eyes, and kisses him first. 

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Want to talk about it? Comment or come chat on tumblr at [ fanforthefics!](http://fanforthefics.tumblr.com/)


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